Devil In Mexico
by sebmoransipod
Summary: Songfic: Jim and Sebastian's first meeting. Jim has an offer that Sebastian cannot refuse.
1. Chapter 1

Songfic about the first meeting between Jim Moriarty and Sebastian Moran. Based off the song "Devil in Mexico" by Murder By Death.

* * *

_"Well I'll take two shots," said the devil to the man and laid a little book on the bar_  
_Well, Lord knows the devil, he only talks shit and only drinks whiskey from the jar_  
_And his hands were raw_  
_And his eyes were cold_  
_And his breath was pure alcohol_  
_And the sound of his voice it never got old and_  
_He talked and talked and talked through the night_  
_Kept sipping his shine till the morning light_  
_Tumbled in through the shades and as he started to go_  
_I put three bullets in his back._

* * *

Why don't I tell you the story of how I met Jim Moriarty.

It begins in a bar, as all good stories do. I'd lost a few hands in the back room and I spent my last meal's worth of money on the cheapest whisky this shithole of a bar had. This little rat of a man strode in, and stuck out like a sore thumb with his suit and his cane and his impeccable personal hygiene. As someone who was sharing a room with a hooker on the best of nights, he looked ridiculous. So ridiculous, he would probably make for an easy pocket to empty later tonight. I wouldn't even need to pretend I had a knife. I couldn't help but chuckle before turning back to my drink.

Within a minute, the man was at my side. I tried to ignore him, but I could feel his eyes burning a hole in me.

"I think you're in the wrong place." I muttered.

"Well, I found what I was looking for, so I think not, Colonel." He replied.

I turned to look at him again. "Haven't been called that one in a while. Heard of me, have you?"

"Naturally. Jim Moriarty. I have a job offer you may be interested in."

"I don't think you and I run in the same circles, _Jim_." I layered his name with some not-so-subtle disgust.

"If you see the criminal underworld as a circle, I don't think you have any idea of what game you're playing, Moran." Moriarty was still staring intently at me, head oscillating slightly. Then again, it may have been _my_ head oscillating from the amount of booze I had in me.

"I don't give a shit about playing your game, and I don't want your fucking job." I slammed my glass down a little more forcefully than I intended, before weaving my way towards the exit. As far as I knew, Moriarty didn't move an inch.

Outside, the sky was the bleary grey of early morning. I lit a cigarette and scanned my surroundings. No one around but the homeless regulars that inhabited this shady part of town. I made my way towards the nearest street corner, becoming uncharacteristically relaxed for someone leaving a seedy bar. Just before reaching the street corner, I receive a sharp crack to the right side of my neck, and I taste blood. Before I could turn, I cop a second hit to the back of my knee. I staggered to the ground, clutching my neck. As I put my left hand on the ground to steady myself, Moriarty stomps his heel over my fingers, possibly breaking a few. Cane raised like a baseball bat, he was still staring like a madman. If I wasn't in agony, I would have begun to wonder if that was simply his normal facial expression.

"The fuck was that for?" I groaned through the blood bubbling in my throat. I'd be fucking lucky if there was no permanent damage to my vocal chords after that hit.

"You may want to hear more about my job offer, Moran."

"I'm not fucking working for some freak that beats the shit out of people with a cane." I snarled.

"Something as simple as a gun doesn't get the same point across. A cane produces a much greater effect when used in such a vulgar fashion. Now, my job offer…" Moriarty ran his hand along the cane, holding one end in each and avoiding eye contact, for the first time since our meeting.

I said nothing. At this point, I just wanted to be rid of him.

"Before I begin, I have a few options for what happens if you choose to turn down my offer."

Let me tell you, these options were terrible.

* * *

To be continued.


	2. Chapter 2

_Well, his heart ain't made of nothing but piss and vinegar._  
_And his boots have trampled more than you would know._  
_And his breath has split open the thermometer on the sill._  
_It's so fucking cold in here since you brought in the snow._

* * *

"So we can assume," Moriarty began. "That you will be refusing this job that I've so graciously offered to you."

I nodded.

"Here's a different deal then. I challenge you to a duel." A smirk played on his lips.

"Are you fucking kidding me? A duel? Remind me, what year is it?" I'm sure my disbelief was plainly reflected on my face.

"The loser is whoever becomes too wounded to finish the other. If you win, I'll give you a 24-hour head start before I track you down again. When I find you, there will be no offers. There will be no more duels, or head starts. Only your untimely end."

"And if I lose?"

"Then you're mine."

"So I have to choose between death and servitude?"

"You can put it that way."

"I choose death."

"Then you'll have to win the duel."

"You know what? Fine. I'll play this fucking ridiculous game." I gave in, half of me wanting this night to be over, and the other half wanting to see where this was going.

"I assume you have a pistol, Moran?"

"Of course."

We both took several paces back, creating a greater distance between the two of us. I looked him square in the eyes. I wasn't about to let him out-stare me any time soon.

Moriarty gestured to the back door of the bar we had just left. "The second that door opens again, we draw. Winner is the last one standing. Agreed?"

I grunted in agreement. I wasn't going to give him the satisfaction of verbal answers.

There was only a few moments before the door opened. Maybe twenty seconds at the very most. I couldn't help but feel an incredible amount of tension though. Realistically, I knew I was the best shot in London. If I wasn't, some other man would be facing down the weedy little man with the receding hairline, in some other shady car park, far away from here. But he was here, challenging me. Not that it should be much of a challenge. Moriarty seemed calm, utterly serene. The way he stood, shoulders slumped slightly, with a bored expression should have told me that something was not right. It was as if he didn't plan to take part in this at all. Was he going to let me shoot him? Because I really wouldn't mind that.

I should have realized something was amiss. The door opened, and we both drew our pistols. I was much faster, but in the split second before I fired, I felt the agonizing sting in my lower abdomen. I fired a shot, and the aim may have been off, but he still copped a shot to the leg. I was bewildered. I didn't even hear his shot. He had barely drawn his gun by the time I shot him. Then the spasms began. I could feel the warm sensation of blood running down my back. As my legs gave out on me, I realized that I hadn't been shot at all. I'd been stabbed. Right in the lumbar region. I flailed as I went to the ground, dragging down a previously unseen homeless man with me. Moriarty had obviously paid this guy to do the dirty work. This duel had been rigged from the start.

In a blind rage, I forced the homeless man to the ground below me. Pistol in hand, I fired a shot directly between his eyes. I was now soaking in both my own blood, and the blood of a relatively innocent local tramp. I was vaguely aware of Moriarty hobbling towards me. My ears were still ringing from the point blank shot.

"Well, Moran. You realize that this instance of murder can't be palmed off as a war crime? The police are already on their way, I suspect, and unless you want to deal with them, you may need to come with me."

And that is the story of how I met Jim Moriarty.

* * *

_Someone say a hail Mary for this house_  
_Bless the corners and burn the devil out._


End file.
